


In What We Don't Get

by grafourcy



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 15:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18501784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grafourcy/pseuds/grafourcy
Summary: He knows that Blaine is sorry and he knows that it doesn't mean a damn thing, to speak sorry is to want to reverse the wind and that, Kurt thinks, is utterly ridiculous.





	In What We Don't Get

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for this being so, very depressing.

* * *

 

 

He’d been off all night, not quite upright, skewed and unsure, tiptoeing around something he was scared to touch and Kurt could tell. He could _feel_ it spilling off of him in waves of unease. He said nothing, let it roll off and over, like he had a choice.

~

The piano was baring itself loud to the room, at the hands of the man Kurt _knew_ was biting his tongue, he could feel the words he had trapped solid in his throat. Blaine’s eyes were spilling what his mouth would not and his voice wobbled over Katy Perry’s lyrics and _he couldn't do this_. He had laid out a life for himself that he could see now, one of dark grey mist and sweeping bouts of regret and being discarded in the back, and he couldn't do this. Kurt knew, he knew.

He felt it rush through him all at once, it upturned his blood and his searching limbs, he knew in that one tick of a static moment that he had been dropped from whatever delusioned safety he had wrapped himself up in, it wasn’t warm anymore, it was real and it was _ice_ cold.

 

-

 

Outside the wind was sticky and warm and if he wasn't suffocating before the atmosphere ensured it, now. One foot placed in front of the other, sure, steady, firm where everything else wasn't. He had to say it, break the seal of whatever this thing was that they could both feel, it was tugging at him and he had to break it, push it down and out. “Can we stop pretending that nothing's wrong”.

It wasn't a question and it wasn't a command, it was an offering that pushed around at the edges of truth, prodded and teased, aggravating what was sunken. Kurt hoped it would rise and break.

(Blaine had always been exactly what Kurt had needed him to be, never quite on centre but always right, just off the point so perfectly that he fit kurt’s needs like he was nurtured and raised in the most intimate parts of him. Kurt now knew, of course, that this was merely a delusion, a smoke screen that so kindly blurred what he did not want, nor need, to see. Blaine had always been Blaine and Kurt only needed what he thought was true, what he thought was enough.)

“I was with someone.”

It didn't matter how much regret or pain Blaine had desperately tried to push into the syllables nor how desperately Kurt’s core wanted to search for the sweetened edges of reality, he had heard what he was meant to and it was only good for angering a bruise that was already there, open and tender and vicious and purple on his most vital organs. The tears on the rounds of his heated cheeks were lies because Kurt was not crying, he was not here _to_ cry, the muggy air had been plucking at him all night, trying to press a message into his skin with restless unease and he knew this was coming, could feel it tugging, enclosing. His bruise was fresh but he was _not crying._

~

The pain only thrummed through his frame when he breathed and so Kurt did not breathe, did not want to trudge through an aching river for oxygen. He didn't breathe and he didn't move, he stood and waited for something to shift, waited for reality to fold in on itself and post itself away because this, Kurt could not walk out of and push away so delicately to those corners of his mind that he didn't dare touch.

 

-

 

Later that night when everything is still save for the horrid rushing behind kurt's skull, he stares at the beige wall and scrapes behind dark corners in hopes of finding why he was never enough. Not to his father, not to his school, not to his friends nor his boyfriend- and if he’s throwing himself under, not to himself either.

Blaine had apologised, said it wasn't him, that he was just lonely. Kurt wishes he’d never carefully counted his steps up only to be beaten back down. He had been stumbling, trying to justify snapping something new and innocent but kurt couldn't hear a word, he'd walked off and hadn’t looked back.

If you'd have asked a year back, Kurt would have said that the gentle touch of the fingertips is as romantic as it gets, he knows now that skimming skin is a lie and a mask for the prodded, bleeding innards of a person scared out of love. Now, kurt would say that the pinnacle of romance is seeing your lover spill vile, searing poison hand crafted just for you, scalding and pathetic all over your young shared trust and knowing that you'd still fall to your knees for them, apologising for every mistake that they didn't want, that they'd ever been bothered to throw your way.

Maybe a promise told twice wasn't a promise at all, maybe it was more of a confession to the unknown, a sort of fucked up plea. These are the things Kurt wishes he'd thought about before wrapping up his heart all pretty and neat and handing it over to the only man Kurt had ever really wanted to see behind his eyelids at night.

He knows that Blaine is sorry and he knows that it doesn't mean a damn thing, to speak sorry is to want to reverse the wind and that, Kurt thinks, is utterly ridiculous.

 

-

 

Now, sat on his double bed in New York, he doesn't think that rotating his phone a perfect 180 degrees between his thumb and his forefinger over and over will much change the retched path his life has decided to die on. He does it anyway. 

~

Three days drag and four shifts pull but five text messages from  _him_ wound. They arrive with a stab and latch on with teeth, they eat at the good and the bad and Kurt can't really stand up straight by the sixth.

Ignoring him is easy because he never really left, not to Kurt, in his mind he is there in the shadowed corner and he can hear all the delicate, whispered things Kurt won't ever admit to saying out loud.

He's fidgeting with his deplorable bowtie, worrying the pointed edges between his gripping fingers and shifting uneasily on his matted, red corduroy shoes. His dark eyebrows are knitted together throwing cutting shadows over the top halves of his guilty eyes, he's pleading, but not with his voice. He sees the terrible mess he's made of Kurt and what he ripped out of him and what Kurt has desperately tried to stuff back in the wrong way around, all tangled up and he's sobbing, begging- _i'_ _m_ _sorry, i'm_ sorry, _i'm sorry, i'm just-_

Except he's not. Blaine is not in the corner anymore than Kurt is breathing with the intent of staying alive.

~

He whines back in his throat and falls backwards and what the fuck does it matter anyway, he'd always been nothing, always been something people wave a hand at, dismissing. Kurt wants to take his own two hands and crush them, one after the other, to stop him from grabbing at people, clinging on where he's not wanted. He'd probably just end up using his feet, anyway.

 

-

 

Three days after the fist six and Kurt Hummel is not a man, he does not fold up his thoughts and tuck them away where they rot, he lets them gorge on his brain and he has never been more alive, really. Three days after the first six and Kurt Hummel is lying on the hardwood floor in the safety of darkness and he is but a thought. Somewhere between the hours of 2am and 6am at the beginning of the third day after the sixth Kurt Hummel became objective, he got lost somewhere in those greedy cracks where he stores all the rotten things and maybe this is where he should have been all along.

On the other side of the room his phone buzzes, the screen lights and Kurt is certain it will read something about being awfully sorry, something about forgiveness, something about taking it back. He doesn't check the texts, has no desire to confirm what he knows is true because, you see, he has already collapsed into something smaller, something safer.

Anything more than now and he'd tear. A drop too much is a drop overflowing and Kurt can not overflow, cannot bear to see his thoughts spilled bare and ugly over the polished floor boards.

 

-

 

The time is 5:42am and it is eight days after the first six, and Kurt Hummel is no longer objective, Kurt Hummel rests in the places where no one can reach, where he is not unwanted nor wanted, where, after all this time, he unfolds only to be read by no one.

It is a cruel place and it is one of the kindest he has ever known. 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> not completely sure how i feel about this. it's a start, i think.  
> any support would be wonderful!  
> i hope you felt something. 
> 
>  
> 
> -  
> even if you were just skimming, thank you for at least reading this little end note.  
> my username is the same on everything if anyone happens to read this and for some reason is interested :)


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